Mulder & Mulder, PI
by WildwingSuz
Summary: Is Scully imagining things, or is Mulder losing his mind?


**Author's Notes:** This came from a remark that I made to my 24-yr-old son while were were discussing the show; I said something like, "If they got married, would he call her Mulder as well?" It evolved into a joke with us, 'Mulder & Mulder', and then I remembered the husband-and-wife PI shows I used to watch as a kid: McMillan and Wife, Hart to Hart, etc. And out of that this little story was born.

**Spoilers:** The entire series. This story takes place in the winter of 2007/08, and is based on what little has been seen of Mulder and Scully in the previews for the movie "The X-Files: I Want to Believe". Written July 2008, about three weeks before the movie release date.

**Mulder & Mulder, P****I**  
by Suzanne Feld  
Rated PG for implied adult situations

The minute the phone rang he jumped up from his desk and disappeared through the bathroom door to his left, the door closing without explanation. If I hadn't seen this happen so often in the last couple of years I'd think he'd been struck by sudden violent diarrhea, but without warning he'd suddenly stopped answering the phone. For all I knew an alien tentacle or flukeworm-man appendage or Tooms-finger might have jumped out of an earpiece at him in the recent past, but I'd never seen it in an X-file or even one of our recent case folders.

Heaving a sigh, I picked up the cordless. "Mulder and Mulder, Private Investigators", I said, then paused. Nothing. I tried again, slower. Then just a simple "Hello", which also got no response. I was about to hang up when a gravelly, accented voice said, "I need your help".

"That's what we're here for," I said, turning back to the computer and minimizing the game of Jewelz I had been playing before the phone rang and Mulder did his amazing disappearing act. As I brought up the appointment book program I said, "Would you like to come in and meet with us? We recommend a consultation before anything else."

"I'll, uh, I'll call you back." The line went dead.

Rolling my eyes, I set the handset back in the cradle on the side of my desk and called, "You can come out now, the big bad phone monster is gone". Even though there was no response from beyond the door, I knew he'd heard me.

A few minutes later he wandered back into the room, wiping his hands on a scrap of paper towel--but they were dry and so was the towel. I don't make my living now as a P.I. without reason; even when I had been a full-time physician, observation was the most important of my tools. "Sorry, sorry", he said as he chucked the towel into the wastebasket on his side of the desk as he sat down in his chair. "You know how it is; when you gotta go, you gotta go."

I ignored him and brought my game up; I'd broken 500,000 last week and was determined to surpass my high score today if nothing else came up. Our wide flat-screen monitors sat just a few feet apart on the two large desks which were a couple of inches apart, just enough so that when he bumped those long legs against the underside when he was in a hurry it didn't knock over _my_ coffee cup or water bottle along with his. I knew he could see my screen, and silently dared him to say anything. There _are_ perks to being your own boss.

"So who was on the phone, Scully?" he asked, eyes on his monitor. I didn't look to see what was on there, but I had a good suspicion it was a paused, muted YouTube video replay of last year's sports finals that he was still catching up on. Living this far away from his favorite American sports was driving him crazy but even though our legal issues had been worked out years ago we hadn't moved back to the States. Vancouver had become our home, though at first it was just a safe haven to clear our names from.

"Someone who apparently can't decide if they need our help or not. No alien tentacles or even a Russian water-pseudopod so maybe you can answer the phone next time, Mulder," I said while mostly concentrating on my game.

"Alien tentacles?"

Oh, brother. The things that come out of my mouth when I'm distracted. "Never mind. They'll call back if they really want to talk to us."

"Yeah, I guess so." He leaned back in his chair and dug a half-full bag of sunflower seeds out of his middle desk drawer. "Scully, do you think we're wasting our time here?"

I hit the spacebar to pause the game timer since he seemed to want to talk. "No, although I can see why you might think so this time of the year." I waved out at the overcast, snowy street beyond the large front windows of our office, where traffic crawled by in both directions through blowing snow. It was just after noon and the lunchtime rush was on, that magical hour when secretaries and clerks could get away from their desks and sent the fast-food places hopping. We had a decent location, in downtown but not in the middle of the business district. Still, traffic could be a problem and it was nice to be able to set our own hours, especially this time of the year when business was slow. There weren't any less infidelities, curious adoptees, runaway teenagers, or corporate espionage, but people seemed to want to deal with them less in the winter. Summer we were nonstop, winter we mostly sat around, and it all worked out.

"I guess I start getting depressed when we spend most of our work week playing computer games and discussing what to have for dinner," he said, rolling up the bag and putting it back after spilling out a pile of seeds on his desk to one side of the keyboard.

I nodded understandingly, turning back to my monitor. I heard the first crack of the day as he split a sunflower shell with his teeth and couldn't help smiling to myself. "Me too," I agreed, though that wasn't really the truth. I may get bored upon occasion, but I haven't found myself unhappy very often since our legal status was straightened out and we were no longer fugitives on the run. "Probably the lack of sunlight," I murmured. "It's called seasonal affective disorder. Phototherapy, or bright light therapy, is effective in battling the depression linked with the disorder. Maybe we should get some sunlight bulbs in here."

He didn't answer and I got involved in my game again, but lost at less than 40,000. I was growing bored with it now and closed the program, finding our appointment book beneath. It showed this entire week and there were only three appointments, two with new clients and one follow-up, other than notations for the days I worked at the free clinic. We did have a court appearance that would probably last half the day, but it wasn't until Thursday morning and that was a long way away. Why had his restlessness suddenly infected me? Besides, it was unlikely that seasonal affective disorder was the culprit since we had large windows both here and in our flat upstairs and neither of us had ever shown any symptoms before. Even if I work as an M.D. less than thirty hours a week I still think like a doctor most of the time.

I was starting blankly at the monitor, not really seeing it and lost in thought, when I was startled by a pair of familiar hands slipping forward over my shoulders and warm breath on my neck. The familiar voice half-whispered in my ear, "You wanna fool around, Scully? It _is_ our lunch hour."

I reached up and stopped the hands from going any lower by grasping his wrists. "What, _here_, Mulder?" I tipped my head towards the window.

"No one's walked by in hours, and I don't think the people in the cars can see us," he said, nuzzling my ear. "But if you're so shy, we can go in the conference room."

I was weakening, though I had no plans to do anything sexual in our office when there was a nice warm bed waiting upstairs. Still, this man's a heady handful when he gets amorous and it was rare that I could turn him down even if I'd ever wanted to—we'd opened the office late and closed it early enough times to verify that. "Mulder..." I said warningly, while allowing myself a shiver of pleasure from what he was now doing to my neck with his mouth.

"Mmmnnn?"

I was weakening even though I still held his hands motionless on my collarbones; the man knew me too well after a grand total of nearly twenty years together, both as partners and as a couple. Had we not been interrupted at that moment I suspect that we probably wouldn't have made it past the floor behind the desks if I'd let go of his hands.

The phone rang. Mulder disappeared like The Great Maleeni, leaving one side of my neck cold and damp despite the warmth of the office. I answered, but it was a recorded telemarketer that I promptly hung up on. Glancing over to my left I saw that the bathroom door was open so he hadn't gone in there; likely he was in the conference room, which was the only doorway other than the one leading outside in front of our desks.

"Psst. Scully," I heard, and turned to look. Standing back so no one outside could see him, my now unclothed—except for socks--partner and husband stood inside the conference room doorway and beckoned me to him. I had the presence of mind to go lock the door and turn over the Open/Closed sign, but I was wrong when I'd thought we'd make it to the bed upstairs. The conference room turned out to work just fine.

***

Later I ran out and got us sandwiches and coffee from the Tim Horton's down the block, our usual lunch but eaten at almost 1:30. When I returned, fumbling with the door in my hurry to get back inside and out of that bitter wind, Mulder jumped up and helped me inside. "That damn wind's got to be gusting at better than twenty miles per hour," I said as I handed him the tray containing two coffees. "Remind me again why we don't move to Florida?"

"Salt water monsters," he said, pushing on the door to make sure it latched securely. "Or hurricanes, whichever you prefer."

I set the bag with the sandwiches on my desk, then went to hang my wet coat on the rack just behind the front door. By the time I'd turned around our lunches were laid out on the desk and he was already face-first in his sandwich. As I sat down I saw a sticky-note on the edge of my monitor with "Call Dr. Madison" and a local phone number on it. "What's this?" I asked, flipping an edge of the note with one finger as I reached for my sandwich with the other.

"Message," he mumbled around a mouthful of ham and cheddar, then took a swig of coffee. "From the clinic, I assume."

"Hmn. Probably the new afternoon doctor that's supposed to be in this week," I said, unwrapping my sandwich as my stomach gurgled in anticipation. Then a thought hit me and I paused, turning to stare at him.

"What? Have I got mustard on my face?" He grabbed a napkin from the stack between us and wiped around his mouth.

"No. This message means that you answered the phone, right?" I said, narrowing my eyes at him. "Now wait a minute, Mulder. Twice this morning you ran away when the phone rang, but you answered it when I wasn't here. I'm getting a little tired of this; you want to tell me what's going on?"

He gave me that innocent puppy-dog look that never fails to infuriate me when I know he's bullshitting me. "Alien tentacles?" he tried hesitantly, then dropped his eyes. He must have seen the real anger in mine and said hastily, "Oh, all right. I'm getting tired of jumping up every time the phone rings anyway. If I tell you the truth, you promise you won't laugh at me?"

I had taken a bite of my sandwich, hunger overcoming irritation, so I just nodded.

"I like to hear you answer it," he said simply, dropping the act entirely and looking over at me with a slight quirk to the corner of his mouth. "I like to hear you say the name of our company."

I stared over at him, puzzled, and put my sandwich down. "You like to hear me _say_ it?" I repeated, baffled.

"Yeah." He raised both shoulders, almost apologetically. "Since we agreed you wouldn't take my name when we got married I like to hear you say it."

"Is _that_ what's bothering you?" A light dawned, almost as clearly for me as a cartoon character having a bulb turn on over its head. "All these years and you're upset that I didn't take your name?"

"No, no, it's not that at all," he said, serious eyes still on mine. "I agree that it's better if you kept your name—besides, we've always called each other by our surnames and it would probably be confusing for everyone who knows us if your last name as the same as mine. No, I just like hearing you say the name of our company."

I was staring back at him, baffled. "Mulder & Mulder, P.I.?" I said, confused. His eyes lit up, going from serious to happy, and I felt a jolt in the general area of my chest. My heart, to be a bit more specific. Yes, he still has that effect on me after all these years. "You... like hearing me say that?"

"Well, yeah. Who'd have thought even five years ago that we'd ever be anything but fugitives? Afraid to contact your mother to just let her know we were alive and well, worried that some shopkeeper in Podunk Idaho would recognize us and turn us in? Look where we are now, Scully! We've both got our natural hair color back, albeit with more gray than we'd like, but we don't have to wear disguises anymore and can say my—our—names. It may not be what either of us dreamed of in high school, but as far as I'm concerned it doesn't get much better than this."

I was still staring at him during this diatribe, feeling like I'd been hit over the head with a bat made of Silly Putty. "What in Heaven's name would you have done if I'd decided to practice medicine full-time instead of working here with you most of the time?"

He put down his forgotten sandwich and came over to me in two long strides, pulling me out of the chair with both hands on my upper arms. "It doesn't matter, Scully," he said, wrapping one big hand around the back of my neck and tilting my face up to his. "We're together, that's all that matters, and every time I hear you say our company name it reminds me of how lucky we are."

I closed my eyes momentarily, shaking my head. "If I didn't love you so much I'd shoot you again," I said, low, then looked back up at his face looming over mine with a wide smile, the kind of smile I'd so rarely seen on him before we'd made our life here. Now it was a common sight, but never got old to me. "Just promise me one thing, Mulder?"

"Anything," he said against my lips.

"If I promise to say the name of our company at least three times a day, will you answer the phone once in a great while?"

His chuckle was muffled against my mouth, then he pulled back slightly to say, "Five times a day. And once before bed."

"Deal."

_finis_


End file.
